PS 

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\R \% Snatches from 
cA Diary 



By MARY G. MURTAUGH 




class PS "55 3* 5* 

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COPYRIGHT DEPOSPT. 




SNATCHES FROM A DIARY 



What shall we do when they come home, 

Who were willing to die for us ? 
What shall we do for the men 

Who went through Hell's red fire? 
Can we repay, by our mere care, 

The crosses and losses they bore, 
Or can we blot from their weary minds 

The scenes that war forever finds? 



Snatches from a Diary 



1917 — 1918 



By 



MARY G. MURTAUGH 



Little book, your leaflets I will fill 

With memories of love 
And with memories of war; 

For words like petals of roses 
Scatter, to remind us of a time 

That once has been. 




Boston 

The Four Seas Company 

1918 



^ 



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A*& 



Copyright, 1918, by 
The Four Seas Company 



JAN." 13:1919 



The Four Seas Press 
Boston, Mass., U. S. A. 



ICI.A5L175? 



A DREAM 

I had a dream, a sad strange dream, 

It was not long ago, 
I thought I saw an angel bright, 

All shrouded with celestial light, 
And in his hand he held a book, 

While on his face, the same sad look, 
Said, "Come." 

This form etherial as the air 
Was but the messenger of war. 

I heard that voice, so low and clear, 
My boys call softly one by one; 

They went in turn, each one in time, 
They passed me by with looks 

That seemed to say, "I must," 
"I cannot stay." 

They vanished from my dreamy sight, 

I watched them one by one ; 
I knew their heart-aches, felt their cares 

Their duties were not light ; 
I heard again that voice so soft, 

Again, I saw that angel fair, 



A diadem was in his hand, 

Bright as the lightning's gleam, 
"I've one for each," was what he said, 
"For each man has done well." 

And yet it was not all a dream, 

It has been really so, 
The God of War has called my boys; 

Yes, one by one, I saw them go ; 
I look and think, for their spirits still are here, 

And it seems to me like a by-gone scene, 
Not very long ago, 

And now I wait these dreary days 
For the messenger of peace. 



TO THE READER 

In these dark days, let us try for one short 
hour to forget, yet remember, and with the writer 
hope for better things and peaceful days to come. 



'Twas in the mild September, 

A day to well remember, 
Birds sang, doves flew high above, 

While we whispered words of love. 



Snatches from a Diary 

September, 191 7. — Today, such a happy day 
for me, because, little book, I heard words, love 
words, whispered midst the beauties of an old 
garden which we both loved so well. 'T was 
there Philip told me of his love. 

Love, love makes the world bright, 

Love makes the world dark ; 
Little book, can you spell 

What love is? 
Or shall I have to try to tell? 

LOVE 
Crimson secrets in hearts of fire, 

Veins that are thrilling with love's desire ; 
The gleam of the eyes, the sound of the voice, 

Are but the roses of tender hope, 
The touch of the hand pleads fondness choice, 

And the press of the lips but thirst of bliss ; 
The petals of roses may fade and die, 

But the heart-leaves of love will ever live, 
Yet words cannot speak nor looks ever tell 

The meaning to you of the flower of love. 

March, 1918. — Six months have passed, 
months of sunshine, no cloud to mar our hap- 
piness, memories always to live — until — today, 

came the call to war. 

9 



io Snatches from a Diary 

The words read brief. 

But fill with grief 
The hearts who ever lines behold 

On this little message of yellow gold. 

We read it together, hearts beating with mad, 
wild throbs. The test had come sooner than we 
expected. But Philip Sheridan Marden, an offic- 
er in the Medical Reserve Corps of the U. S. A., 
was ready to meet it and follow in the footsteps 
of that noted ancestor whose name he bore. And 
I, Dorothy Stonewall Grant, must stand brave, 
true and loyal to him, for I, too. am a descendant 
of a race of fighting fame. 

Brave as the brave of yore, 

On, on to the battle's core, 
For memories to live forever. 
To do or die. 
The time now will be short, little book, for 
Lieutenant Phil will soon have to go, but no mat- 
ter what happens, we will always have our 
memories. 

MEMORIES 
Brightest memories, like the star?. 

In my pathway always gleaming, 
Lighten days and chase the shadows. 
Brighten night and soothe my dreaming, 



Snatches from a Diary 1 1 

Just a light that always lasts, 

Memories bright, like the stars. 
Memories bright, of no sorrows, 

Golden rays against day's sadness, 
Suns the shadows of tomorrows, 

All the clouds just pass away. 
Pure and bright and always true 

Are those memories, like the stars. 

April 15, 191 8. — Just five more days before 
Philip will have to leave for a western camp, to 
remain a month, perhaps longer, before sailing 
for France. 

France, how you tear my heart when I hear 
your name! The horror of the submarine war- 
fare is on the lips of everyone. Xews of its 
wickedness comes daily. My heart fills with 
pain when I think of the terrors Phil will have 
to face when he crosses the sea. I must not 
think; war is war, and Philip must go. 

Stonewall Jackson — Oh ! why did I ever have 
any ancestors ? Father and mother say he was so 
brave. Well, so am I. 

April 17, 1918. — How the time flies, there is 
so much to be done. It's quite a job getting an 
army kit together. I saw the whole kit together 
last night, little book, and I almost died, especial- 



12 Snatches from a Diary 

ly when I looked at the outfit they have in search- 
ing for the wounded. 

We are going to the lake today, for the last 
time, and say good-bye to all our nooks, so I'll 
have to hurry, little book. My ! how I wish Phil 
did not have to go. 

April, 22, 191 8. — Phil leaves tonight at eight. 
We're not going to say good-bye, not really, not 
until he goes to France. He says he'll come 
home before then if only for a day. The time is 
short and Phil will soon be here. 

So I must not cry, but just be brave, 

And try all tears off to stave, 
And, little book, I must leave you, 
For I've many things to do. 

Phil has gone, my heart is aching, just break- 
ing, and I know he felt the same. I tried to be 
brave and smile through it all, and now, little 
book you won't tell that I am weeping, I, Dorothy 
Stonewall Grant, while I ask you, "How long?" 

HOW LONG? 
Words, golden words, were spoken. 

No, not dreamed. 
One night star-lit, balmy sweet, 

Oh, how long since? 



Snatches from a Diary 13 

Midst dewy perfume of blossoms, 

The brook's babble, the cricket's song, 
With dull sounds from frogland 

And chirps from the nesting birds, 
And over all this wonder of the night, 

Moonbeams' silver fell so bright. 
T was thus we spoke those words, 

Smiling, loving, our hearts nigh breaking. 
Ah! how long since? 

It seems but yesterday. 

Words, golden words, will they be spoken? 

Not, not dreamed, 
Again, in that garden old and fair, 

Oh, how long hence? 
Midst the golden rays of the sun-lit day, 

The song of birds, and blossoms rare, 
Or at night 'neath the beams of the silver moon 

With echoes of nature still awake? 
Or will it be in another land, 

Away from the pain and grief of earth, 
Midst mystic music and angel bands? 

I ask, "Where again will we speak those words, 
Smiling, loving, our hearts at rest and peace ? 

Ah! how long to wait?" 

I know 't will not be vet. 



/3 



14 Snatches from a Diary 

May 3, 1918. — Several little notes have come 
from Phil. He is getting nicely settled ; that is, 
under the conditions. He misses his soft bed, 
hot water and baths, and many other comforts of 
home. Oh, it's a gay life, this army life. He 
says that they hie to the city, about two hours' 
ride from the camp for week-ends. 
At the end of the week I wouldn't lose 

The chance of a bath and a good long snooze, 
It's a good hot tub, and a nice soft lather, 

For each week I become a Turkish bather. 

May 14, 1918. — Phil's letter of today says they 
are very busy. The camp covers hundreds of 
acres of land, and there are many thousands of 
soldiers in training. There are many lectures, 
drills and so forth. Oh, there is so much to do. 
They are all glad when the hour of "Taps" comes, 
which is sometime about ten o'clock at night, I 
think. Phil says, little book, that no matter how 
many times the men hear the bugle sound "Taps" 
you never tire of it. It is then you think of 
home and loved ones, for many a dream is 
dreamed at the hour of "Taps." 

TAPS 
Hush, 'tis the bugle sounding, 
Calling the hour of "Taps." 



Snatches from a Diary 15 

Put down your pen and paper, 

Drop work unless ill-pressed. 
Draw your chair to the open window, 

Yes, open it up wide, 
And list to the sounds it's sending 

All over the camp grounds. 
Throw back your head and listen, 

I know you are smoking, too, 
But the very smoky incense 

Will bring pleasant dreams to you. 
Close your eyes, you'll see them 

Right close and near to you, 
A hand on your shoulder, a kiss on your brow, 

Arms of loved ones envelop you now 
And close you up tight, in one short happy dream. 

Awake ! for the bugle's notes are dying, 
Just list to them, here and there, 

"Good-night," "To Rest," it's softly calling— 
The song of "Taps" so sweet and clear, 

The hour when many a dream is dreamed. 

The sunset wanes 

From the twinkling panes, 
Dim misty myriads move as 

Down the glimmering streets I walk 
And turn my steps to a long still road 

And bright, bright light 



J * 



1U OllctLL-llCS 11U111 d A-Jidly 

That shines for me, 

The light of a happy home and love. 

May 17, 1 91 8. — Little book, today all is sad- 
ness in my home. Mother weeps, father is silent. 
Such a change, where all was happiness just a 
short time ago. The war has taken our boys, too. 
My brothers both left for camp today. Oh, little 
book, 

You don't know what a thrill it gives, 
A memory that will always live, 

As you watch your boys, 

Yes, soldiers, marching down 

The streets of your old home town. 

May 21, 1918. — They are sending the troops 
across seas quickly these days, and oh, I dread 
the sea, not knowing what may happen ! This 
fearful war has changed so many homes, just as 
it has ours. Can you feel, little book, what home 
is like tonight? 

HOME 
Home tonight is a memory ; 

Pale phantoms, one and all, 
Hover round me, come before me, 

Wave their white robes in my hall. 



Snatches from a Diary 17 

I can hear the voices 

Of our loved ones who are gone, 
Telling of a home so happy 

In the short sweet past. 

Where no shadows ever lingered, 
Only laughter, sounds of gladness ; 

Yes, the ghost of those bright hours 
Seems to haunt me while I sit. 

Home tonight is again a memory, 
Sweet to me, as a sister's duty, 

As one by one on forms I'm gazing, 
In fancy, passing by me in the hall. 

Tonight, at home, alone I'm thinking 
Of the dear ones who have gone, 

Hoping, praying a safe returning 
For our boys, one and all. 

May 25, 1918.- — Rumor reports today that our 
boys will sail within a month. I don't really 
know what will become of mother. These days 
she has completely forgotten that she is a des- 
cendant of "Stonewall." I guess she leaves all 
that to me. 

Phil's mother, I guess, must have heard the 
same news, and of course thinks Phil is going or 
has already gone, as we have not heard from him 



18 Snatches from a Diary 

for a week. Well, mothers come first, and I hope 
Phil's mother gets a letter before I do. For 
somehow, little book, I can't forget the look in 
both those mothers' eyes. I call it the look of 
the war mother. 

THE WAR MOTHER 
The world shall never know 

The pangs my spirits feel 
Nor what I suffer for thy sake 

Or for thy sake conceal. 
I think of you when a mere boy, 

And now I see you as a man, 
And while upon my lips 

They see a smile so gay 
No one will dream the hidden griefs 

That wear my heart away. 

Yes, I am thinking of you, so brave, 

And my heart is stirred by a mother's love, 
Through all the scenes from boy to man, 

I see them by me pass along, 
And I pray the Lord to save my son 

From suffering and a foreign grave; 
And even as I calmly think, 

Long past the midnight hour, 
Tears I shed, unseen, alone, while 

I pray for you so dear. 



Snatches from a Diary 19 

May 27, 1918. — Phil's mother received a letter 
today. He is still at camp, so all the worry was 
for nothing. 

May 28, 1918. — Received a letter from Lieu- 
tenant Phil today. I'm all smiles, little book. 
For a change I'll make you smile. At least try, 
for I hear Phil saying, "Don't." 

DON'T! 
Don't sigh. Just try 

To smile, not cry, 
For the sake of a lad 

Who'd rather not think 
That the face of his lass was sad. 

Don't weep. Just try 

To make your eyes, 
For the sake of a lad, 

Light with unshed tears bright, 
To say that his lass is glad. 

Don't grieve. Just try 

To think, "He's coming 
Home" — yes, your lad; 

Oh ! won't you welcome him with love ! 
Then lad and lass will ne'er be sad. 



20 Snatches from a Diary 

May 30, 1918. — Today is Memorial Day, little 
book. This year it has a special meaning to 
everyone, I think. We've thrown to the breeze 
today our service flag with two stars. 



MY SERVICE FLAG 
I've thrown to the breeze today from here, 

A silky flag, the color red, 
And on it stars, yes, two so blue, 

To tell of men so brave and true ; 
I watch it blow, and breathe a prayer, 

"Oh, God, don't let those stars turn gold." 

The flag I threw to the breeze today, 
It blows and it flutters, to people say 

That these brave men have gone to fight 

And work and serve for their country's right 

I watch it blow, and again I pray 

For the stars to be surely always blue. 



l & j 



This little flag in the breeze still blows, 
It calls to the people in the streets, 

To touch their minds with the world's great strife, 
Its love and its bitterness all so great ; 

I watch it blow, and again I pray, 

"Dear God, don't turn the stars to gold." 



Snatches from a Diary 21 

This little flag in the breeze, watch it blow, 
It tells of the people within the home, 

Their hearts and minds that are sad and lone, 
It speaks from the place of business, too, 

Of those who are missed in toil's great flow ; 
I watch it blow, and pray again 

For the stars to be just all blue. 

June 3, 1918. — I've got to be a real busy-bee 
since those three big soldier boys left to work for 
Uncle Sam. I've a feeling, little book, that be- 
fore all this war trouble is over, I, Dorothy Stone- 
wall Grant, will have learned much, a great many 
things, for I can see there is much to know and 
much to do. 

I've a feeling, it may be true, 

That over here as over there, 
The same hell-fire we must go through ; 

It does not mean that guns will rain, 
But our hearts will burn with fearful pain. 

June 10, 1918. — I miss my big brothers, oh, so 
much — they were always buzzing about after 
something — "hives of trouble" I used to call them. 
My ! but I wish that they were here, for 

Oh ! my dears 
How I'd just love 



22 Snatches from a Diary 

To have you here 

And have you buzz, 
Buzz words so dear 

In my small ear. 

And now, little book, as my younger brother 
advises, please smile. 

SMILE 
If you're up against it, don't whine, 

Throw up your shoulders and just smile, 
Even though your head is splitting, and your heart 
is broke, 

For it's half the battle over here 
Where everybody's sore and blue, 

And it's most the battle over there 
Where everything is thunder, fire and smoke, 

For although in dreams you see again 
That parting sad and drear, just smile, no tears. 

If you're up against it, don't weep 

And cry against Heaven for your present state, 
For every heart and every home 

Have felt the touch of war's red torch, 
And from early morning till late at night 

They're waiting for a message filled with joy 
or grief 



Snatches from a Diary 23 

From the land where all is sorrow, hunger, blood- 
shed, death ; 
Fate may be kind, Fate may be hard, 

Don't weep, they wouldn't like it, so — just smile, 
no tears. 

June 15, 1918. — Received a letter today, and 
oh ! I dare not write the words I read, for it said 
that Phil's unit might sail for France now — any 
time — in three weeks. I've tried to make believe 
it would not happen, but at last it is going to 
come; still I must smile. My! how I'll hate that 
word after the war is over. 

June 18, 1918. — Letters frorruboth my brothers 
today. Tom is going south for aviation training, 
while Dick still remains where he is, but he says, 
too, that they are going to rush things and are 
sending thousands over every week, and of 
course, being a descendant of Stonewall, too, he 
is anxious to get in the thick of the fight. I 
didn't tell mother that part of the letter yet; no 
use to worry until you have to. Phil's training 
is coming in useful — I am really getting quite 
sensible about the worry part. Mother and 
father are out this evening, and it is very quiet 
and still. Hear it raining, little book, and I'm 
alone. 



24 Snatches from a Diary 

ALONE 

I'm sitting alone and lonely tonight, 

And deep in my heart is a gnawing pain 
As I watch the fading rays of light 

And list to the patter of drops of rain ; 
Then memory softly steals within 

And paints me a picture of other nights 
When my heart was happy, not lone like this, 

And the tears begin to fall, thick and fast. 

I'm sitting alone, just dreaming tonight, 

And visions of love and the happy past 
Keep me company through the storm ; 

The wild winds moan, like a funeral knell, 
I call, but no answer comes to tell ; 

I stretch my hands, but the vision flies, 
And I see just darkness and hear the rain; 

Then the tears fall, thick and fast. 

June 24, 1918. — Oh, little book, my Phil is 
coming home tomorrow just for two days' leave 
of absence, and then within a week he'll be on his 
way over-seas. I can't think, I can't sleep, but I 
must make Phil remember only the happy things 
— there must be no gloom — for 

Yes, always, will golden memories frame 
Your loving image in my heart, 



Snatches from a Diary 25 

And love for what thou art 

Fill the long, long days apart ; 
In life's fond gallery of memory 

Thy pictured face shall ever dwell ; 
Through life thy name to me 

Will but of love and bravery tell ; 
In death 't will bring me peace 

And bid my soul to cease its strife. 

I can't hope, I can't weep, I can only ask my- 
self a thousand times a day, "When?" 

WHEN? 
Some day, when the earth is glad, 

When days are bright, and fewer hearts are sad, 
When birds sing, and roses hide their thorns, 

And when the skies dispel the clouds, 
Or perhaps may wear all gloom, 

No matter, I know it must be joy, 
I do not grieve, I know all will be well, 
But — when? 

Some day, when the earth's not sad, 
When hearts smile over spirit wrongs, 

When the flowers bloom, and all is fair and glad, 
When sun shines and casts a golden ray 

Over homes and the haunts of men, 

No matter, our hearts will throb with joy, 



26 Snatches from a Diary 

So I do not grieve, I know all must be well, 
But — when? 

June 26, 1918. — Phil came this morning, and 
wasn't I glad to see him ! 'T was like a "little bit 
of Heaven." My boy is looking just splendid, 
little book. Of course, I think he is very hand- 
some, anyway, but this out-of-door life has tanned 
and hardened him, and as he says, he is in the 
"pink of condition." He went home to see his 
mother, and then came back tonight. We had 
such a long, long talk. There were many ques- 
tions to be asked, little book, and much to be 
answered, and I feel just like a "Stonewall." It's 
the only time I've known that name really to fit. 
I'm just simply numb. 

THE QUESTION 
You see, before you, as I am, 

Well and strong, they say "a perfect man," 
But before many days I sail away 

To meet perhaps some hapless fate ; 
There are many things for us to do, 

Things not to shirk, but to meet our doom, 
And if in time I do return, 

Wounded, a cripple, yes, maimed for life, 
Think ! these are the things you will have to face, 

That may make you cringe and turn away ; 



Snatches from a Diary 27 

So I ask, "You who gave me the key to your 
heart, 
Could! you love me then, 
That once strong, now helpless, man?" 

THE ANSWER 

'Tis just as you say, I know 'tis true, 

But things might happen to me as they would 
to you, 
A blight might come while you're away, 

And leave me with Fate to deal its pay ; 
We both have youth and love and strength, 

But the future's a pawn that we can't count on ; 
But if in time you should return, 

Not the boy I sent but a helpless man, 
I'd be the woman you looked upon, 

Who said she loved you, and gave you the key 
to her heart, 
But God in His mercy will keep you safe; 

But if I'm needed I'll cling to you fast, 
Even though through hell's fire, as you, I have 
to pass. 

June 26, 1918. — Little book, Philip has gone, 
and it is early, just seven- thirty by the clock. We 
just didn't say much — just thought — for both our 
minds were busy, but we kept silent as if fearing 



28 Snatches from a Diary 

to speak. Little book, I know now what suffer- 
ing is and so does Lieutenant Phil, for tonight we 
both felt its keenest pangs. We didn't say 
"Good-bye." No, Phil and I, to make it easier, 
said, "God bless you." 

God bless you, you have my wishes 

To carry with you far and near, 
I wish it to you when you're happy, 

But more when sorrow makes ill ; 
Most words are empty, blessings lack, 

So all wishes should blessings bring; 
Success, and health, a happy path, 

Is what I wish — God bless you. 

And then we said, "Good-night," not "Good- 
bye." 

GOOD-NIGHT 
Good-night — the simple .accents roll, 

A thrilling cadence through our soul ; 
Good night — warm lips to ours are pressed 

Then dear arms clasp with love's caress 
While the parting words are said — Good-night. 
Good-night — the words are ling'ring yet; 

We would not, if we could, forget, 
And memories of the past will live 

In silent halls of hope's strong walls, 



Snatches from a Diary 29 

That our joys may never end, 

As we say those parting words — Good-night. 

June 30, 1918.— A little, short letter from Phil 
today. He is in quarantine, may go any day now, 
and just think, little book, we may not know a 
thing about it here at home. 

July 4, 1918.— The "Glorious Fourth." Well, 
no celebration today, Dorothy. Just a note from 
Phil came this morning, and I know that he has 
gone, as he enclosed a little white daisy plucked 
from a near-by field at camp, for that was to be 
our "silent sign" to tell me he had sailed. 
"Daisies won't tell," little book, but I wonder if 
we can ever forget? 

CAN YOU FORGET? 

Can you forget in days of peace 

The dreary years that have passed by, 

Heart-aches, caused by the call to arms, 
For our men to fight for honor and home, 

Perhaps to fight in a foreign land, 
To return over seas nevermore? 
Can you forget? 



30 Snatches from a Diary 

Can you forget those hours of peaceful gladness, 
Memories spent with our loved and chosen 
ones, 
Or the days of gloom and sadness, 

When our hearts were torn, with anguish 
borne, 
All joys forgotten, all hopes gone? 
Can you forget? 

Can you forget love's last and mournful parting, 
Where sighs of anguish rent our hearts, 

When our tears trembled, our eyes closed, 
And our lips together were gently pressed 

In one short, fleeting, sad good-bye ? 
Can you forget? 

Can you forget the loved ones who have left us, 

Alone, far away in a distant land, 
Or those returned us, blighted in 

Their youth's first bloom, 
Or those who fought for peace and right 

And lie in a foreign grave? 
Can you forget? 

There were a thousand things I could not think, 
And a thousand things I could not say, 

And you, like me, were you to speak, 

Would say, "I only wish that you could stay." 



Snatches from a Diary 31 

July 7, 1918. — There is much for us women of 
America to do, yes, something to make us forget. 
I think I will take up a course in Army Nursing. 
I feel I will need to know something about nurs- 
ing before this war is over. Perhaps it is because 
I have three loved ones in it. I know mother 
will not like it, but there is only one thing to keep 
us from thinking, and, little book, it is toil. 

TOIL 

Toil must help us to forget this strife; 

In toil grief finds repose, 
The game was worth the stakes, 

For a life of war, a world of foes, 
Was conquered, but at what a cost of life ! 

Hearts broken but triumphant, 
Yes, toil will cast its shade 

O'er memory, like a mystic veil, 
And time will heal our wounds. 

July 10, 1918. — Little book, I'm worrying most 
to death these days that Philip is at sea. I won- 
der about how long it will take before they reach 
the other side. Perhaps three weeks. I wish, 
little book, that I knew, but I must remember 
"Stonewall" and keep from worrying. 

July 13, 1918. — Received a little, short note to- 



32 Snatches from a Diary 

day from Philip, no doubt written on board the 
ship. It said, "All are well. This is the boat we 
caught, very palatial, very comfortable, smooth 
trip so far, everybody well and happy." With it 
was a picture of the ship. The picture is very 
beautiful and says, "The largest ship in the 
world." Lieutenant Phil is so thoughtful, little 
book. Hardly a few days gone, and yet I have 
a little note, and "how things look at sea." 

THE SEA 
Oh, the sea, with its flows and ebbs and tides, 

And its wavelets so blue and green, 
You're full of craft, all strange and gray, 

No more white sails glide o'er your w r ay. 
Some days you're fair, a restful place, 

Other days turbulent, unrest we trace, 
But sea or ocean, you're beautiful too, 

In your gold of sunrise or sunset's hue, 
Or on a day of cloudy gray, but most of all, 

In Moon's soft silver light. 
Oh, sea, mysterious sea, do spell, 

How many human heart's histories can you 
tell? 

Oh, sea, today a bird, yet a ship in wings, 

Sails o'er your great gray, blue green waves, 
Seaward, but who knows where to? 



Snatches from a Diary 33 

There is no one to tell us which way they go. 
Oh, the men's hearts that sail away, 

Could we look in we would see a dart 
That looks like the road that leads to home, 

The place that they leave, not knowing hence, 
But a resting place they seek again 

When again they cross that restless sea 
Where wild winds sweep and tempests roll, 

As if to say they'll never reach home, 
But the tranquil wave of God's calm grace 

Will guide them home to love's resting-place. 

July 15, 1918. — A little white card came today, 
saying, "The ship on which I sailed has arrived 
safely overseas. 

Name— Philip S. Marden, M. C. 
Organization — Base Hospital, No. — 
American Expeditionary Forces." 
Well, little book, Philip is in France or on his 
way. I can't believe it, for I didn't think that he 
would go, somehow. 

SOMEHOW 
Somehow, I did not think that you would go, 

Although the call in springtime came, 
When the lilies were in bloom;; 

The time sped by from day to day, 
Then summer's roses filled the air, 



34 Snatches from a Diary 

So I put from me all ugly fears, 
Of foreign lands and danger's gloom; 

Somehow, I thought, "Perhaps kind fate 
May stay stern duty, staid and straight," 

But you obeyed its quick first call ; 
I would not wish it otherwise, 

But oh ! the dread of those parted days, 
The mornings and evenings we loved them all, 

And oh ! my dear, don't I miss you, 
For somehow I didn't think that you would go. 

July 20, 1918. — I riave been busy these days, 
little book, and as I am going to a meeting of the 
Woman's Aid Society, will just tell you that I've 
written a big, long letter to Lieutenant Phil, some- 
where in France, today. It was a regular camou- 
flage, little book. 

CAMOUFLAGE 
Yes, I've learned to smile, 

And no one looks for traces 
Of tears about my eyes ; 

My face is like most faces, 
But I don't think one would ask 

If my face belied my heart, 
Still I wonder if you'd like to know 

Really what I think. 



Snatches from a Diary 35 

Am I happy? Yes, I look it, 

You would think me what I seem 
Could you see me smiling 

Through each very busy day; 
They say happy persons lightly sleep ; 

Yes, they sleep, but never dream; 
Yet I wonder if you'd care to know 
All the dreams I dream of you. 
July 23, 1918. — I'm wondering tonight why 
there are so many young men about, and why 
they're not at war. They look quite as fit as my 
brothers or Philip, but perhaps they have no fight- 
ing ancestors. I guess that must be it, little book, 
because I don't think they could be all slackers, 
do you? 

THE SLACKER 
There won't be a minute left in life 

To give you a moment of peace or rest; 
They'll call you sure to show your hand, 

And put you through the patriot's test; 
They'll follow you from shore to shore, 

Your life will be but a phantom's face; 
You can't find some one to fight your fight, 
And you can't say that you always hate blood 
and strife; 
You can't have wine to drown your sadness, 
There'll not be music, nor mirth, just madness; 



36 Snatches from a Diary 

How can you look so proud and glad, 

As you think of those transports sailed for 
France, 
Perhaps to suffer, perhaps to die, but oh ! no cads ; 

There was many a chance in war for you 
In lands over-seas, both old and near; 

You thought that, somehow, things would 
straighten out, 
That peace would come, and you'd be free ; 

You are not to yourself or country true, 
They're bound to get you, you'll get your due. 

July 30, 1918. — The newspapers tell us now 
that our American boys are in the thick of the 
fight. Wild battles are raging over there now 
every day. I hope Phil will be at some base hos- 
pital far, far from the lines, but I would not want 
him to know I was wishing any such thing, for 
of course he wants to be near the lines. I al- 
ways think of the fields of Flanders as big fields 
of golden poppies, and until I hear from Phil I 
will think of them as such, although after all the 
blood that has been shed on their ground I don't 
see how the poppies could ever be golden again. 
Do you, little book ? 

FLANDERS FIELDS 
Over there, where the poppies grow, 



Snatches from a Diary 37 

Covering the fields with golden glow, 
Once the skies were gold, blue, purple, too, 

And birds flew high over fields of flowers ; 
There people lived in love and peace. 

Now all is changed, there is no mirth, 
But sadness now by Flanders' hearth. 

Over there, where the poppies grew, 
Other years they'll be of another hue, 

A deep, deep crimson they're sure to be, 

For the fields of Flanders are red with blood ; 

In beauteous Color they'll rise in splendor 
As if to ask that all remember 

That the world's best youth bled on Flanders' 
earth. 

August 3, 1918. — I had a letter from my 
brother Dick today. He has the funniest jobs for 
me to do. I never know what it will be next. But 
it may be anything from threading a needle to 
buying an overcoat in the middle of the summer. 
He thinks anything I say or do about right, and 
oh ! how I miss him, little book. Listen, hear me 
whisper : Dick has a very dear friend, a chum ; 
his name is Tom Jones. He isn't in the army for 
some reason or other, and Dick is worried about 
him. It is a case of too much money and time 
on his hands for mischief for Tom. I suppose 



38 Snatches from a Diary 

in the time of Ancestor Stonewall, such things 
as the name of "vampire" and "affinity" would not 
be tolerated, and no doubt were unknown. But 
things have changed since then. This is the case 
of Tom, Dick's friend. It won't do any good to 
talk to him. He says, "But, Dolly, you know all 
the pillow fights — 'member? Didn't we have 
fun?" Well Tom played pillow fights with us 
many a time, as he was like another brother. 
Tom's father and Dad were real friends. "Now, 
little girl, remember all the scraps you got us fel- 
lows into in the happy past. And, Dolly, just 
keep an eye on Tom ; if you can't handle him, sic 
Dad on to him." But, little book, I think it will 
be like this with Tom: he won't be foolish for- 
ever, but some day will begin to think. 

TO AN AFFINITY 
Do you think that because a man's soul 

You hold cupped in your hand, 
You can mould him, hold him, make him 

The man of your dreams? 
Wondrous to you as it seems, yes, 

You selfish, heartless, too cold to understand 
His weakness, his struggles, his need 

Of a stronger, better hand, 
Look into your heart and ask, "Can it hold?" 



Snatches from a Diary 39 

Do you think that because now 

That he is weak he'll love you forever, 
That he'll never see a flaw, but behold 

Always bright the perfect gem? 
No ; some time, as in a dream, he'll turn 

Quickly, blindly from your side, 
Looking, longing for sympathy, a guide, 

Hoping to find one that is true; 
Then, look in your hand, his soul's slipped 
through. 

August 10, 1918. — I am going away for a few 
days, little book, 'way, 'way, up into the heart 
of the mountains, and forget the war, yes, every- 
thing, and just live in the sunshine of another 
clime. It seems as though I can't wait until the 
time comes to go. I feel as if I just want to go. 
So, little book, I'll say good-bye for a few days, 
and then I'll tell you what I did. 

WISHING 
I want to go, and from the city fly, 

Far as a swallow in the sky; 
I want to go where the golden-rod 

Floods the fields with its yellow gold; 
I want to go where all is trees, 

And mountains and vales and rivers, too, 



40 Snatches from a Diary 

And watch the sunsets and feel the dew ; 

I want to go where all is joy, to soothe the 
heart, 
And make us all our cares forget. 

I want to go through fields of clover, 

And become a perfect rover; 
I want to stand on the river's bridge, 

And watch the stars stud the heaven's blue ; 
I want to list to the call of the wild, 

And feel for once its lonely thrills, 
And forget for a time the world and all its ills, 

For I want now, most of life, to blot out and 
forget. 

I want to go yonder, yes, and yonder, 

With no one to say where I'll ponder; 
I want to lie under trees and study all, 

Their beauty and their height ; 
I want to live for days and days, 

And hear birds sing and call, 
And watch fish swim in brooks of crystal silver, 

Yes, and taste the joy of living, 
And having the glory of loving; 

And I want to live and come back knowing 
That I've been as free as the breeze that blows, 

Knowing for a time that I did forget. 



Snatches from a Diary 41 

August 17, 1918. — Little book, I'm home again 
after my trip in the most wonderful county. I 
got all my wishes, little book, but no fishes. 

For I watched the wily fishes, 

As they shyly passed my hook, 
They nibbled all my bait, 

Then from me swam off straight ; 
So after many hours, by those perch and bass 

Tired and sore I had to pass. 

I received a letter from Philip while away say- 
ing they had arrived safely and were "some- 
where in France." They were all well but tired 
after their trip. It took them only ten days to 
make it, and that wasn't half bad, was it? They 
are at a rest camp ; had to walk to it five miles 
with all their baggage, and pitch their tents, and 
remain for some days until further orders. It 
was only a short letter, but it made me so happy, 
for, little book, I was thinking! 

THINKING 
I'm thinking of you all day, 

And dreaming of you at night ; 
I don't know what morning greets you 

Or what stars make up your night ; 
And if it wasn't for your letters, 



42 Snatches from a Diary 

Written words to make me glad, 
I know I couldn't home here stay, 
I'd have to flv to France. 



I'm thinking of you all these days 

While the summer's lights fade fast, 
And oh ! I dread the winter, 

The storms and winds so drear; 
I think of you near the trenches, 

And the boys from the lines to you, 
And I wish and wish for peace 

So you'd come home safe from France. 

August 19, 1918. — Phil's mother is here today 
to spend the day with us. She is awfully lone- 
some for Phil, he was such a good son, and I miss 
him, too. She is such a dear mother. I love her 
'most as much as I do mine. Phil's mother is a 
northern girl. We call her the "Northern 
Mother," and my mother was a southern girl, so 
we call her the "Southern Mother." They both 
have the same name of Mary. My mother's 
name was Mary Stonewall Jackson, and Phil's 
mother was Mary Clare Sheridan. Lieutenant 
Philip thinks the name of Mary the most beautiful 
name there is, so, little book, this is what he says 
of "Mary": 



Snatches from a Diary 43 

MARY 

Mary, the sweetest name e'er mortal bore, 

One that should never be 
Trumpeted coarsely by the voice of fame, 

But loved and reverenced for its purity, 
Shrined in the heart's home thoughts, 

And cherished there, 
Loved, sacred as a household prayer. 

August 21, 1918. — Received another letter 
from Philip today. They are still at the rest 
camp and wishing to get settled for good, also 
wishing for some good hot water. He says, "If 
we only had some of that hot water that you peo- 
ple in America waste so, we would be so happy." 
It sure is some change, little book, for those boys, 
some of them were so fussy. Hot water, hard 
beds, and the high, tight collars seem to be their 
three great bothers. 

August 30, 191 8. — Had a letter from Phil to- 
day, with some postal cards enclosed. They are 
very fine and give you an idea of the country 
about them. Phil says, "It is very beautiful here ; 
I wish you could be with me to see the country 
and different places." I wish I were, Lieutenant 
Phil. They are in an old town or city somewhere 



44 Snatches from a Diary 

in France, getting ready for a base hospital of 
about two thousand beds. They will have to 
work hard now, but they are glad to get back to 
work again. There are wonderful old chateaux 
in France, and from Phil's description, little 
book, I can almost imagine myself going through 
one with him, as one day before he wrote he went 
to see an old chateau in France. 

AN OLD CHATEAU 
I dreamed that I walked in France, 

When the day was going down, 
By a river that flowed silently past, 

Through an old dim lighted town. 

Then I came to that chateau fair to see 
That told of the past of olden days, 

\Yide open were windows and doors, 
And slowly I walked up the stairs. 

I roamed through many a corridor, 

And many a chamber of state, 
I passed through every open door, 

As the day was growing late. 

I gazed on art long treasured, 

And faces from all looked down, 
And I came to trophies of battles, 

Fought by France long years ago. 



Snatches from a Diary 45 

1 came to the turret chamber, 

As the twilight darkened dim, 
And I watched the flowing river, 

And heard window flowers whisper. 

The place was so still, that I could hear, 

A word, if that word was said, 
But all was quiet, yes still, 

For those of the past were dead. 

Then I came to the little rose-trellised room, 

Where only now was gloom, 
With just a bat, which strove to fly, 

And one rose, a bud, which I pressed to my 
lips. 

Yes, a little guitar fell close to my feet, 

I picked it up, and held it tight, 
And I thought of a little maid 

Who played and sang, perhaps, many a happy 
note. 

But now, 'twas dark, as I turned away, 

And wended my way from, scenes of the past, 

From room to room I said "Good-night," 
To memories and treasures old and dear, 

In that old chateau in sunny France. 

September 3, 1918. — I went to the hospital to- 
day to take up a course in nursing. I do not 



46 Snatches from a Diary 

know how I will get along, but I am going to keep 
right at it, little book. 

September 10, 1918. — Dick has sailed for 
France. He did not get a chance to come home 
as it was only a short time since he left. My big 
brother has gone, too. Well, soon I will have 
two little cards saying, "The ship I sailed on has 
arrived safely overseas." That is the message, 
little book, I want— "Safe." 

September 12, 1918. — Heard from Tom today 
from the aviation camp. Tom is a very poor 
letter- writer. We get one to every ten of our 
letters to him. Every time I see a letter from 
Tom I expect that something has happened, and 
every time the telephone rings I expect it is to 
say that he has been injured. I wish he did not 
go in for aviation. He asks me what I'd do if 
they all came home now, little book — if they came 
now. 

IF YOU CAME NOW 

If you came now, my heart would be too full for 
words ; 
I know I just could not speak; 
My heart would sing like a bird on wing, 



Snatches from a Diary 47 

And my lips would smile. Oh, yes, 
And my eyes would tell a welcome you know so 
well. 



If you came now, and it were a morning of sun- 
light, 
The world would be so bright 
'T would seem no shadows could enter in, 

And if it were noonday, with flower buds in 
full bloom, 
I'd be afraid my heart would be aflame, so glad 
you came. 

If you came now, and it were night, with silvery 
moon, 
With all earth's beauty shimmering in the dew, 
I'd try to be calm, and think the war 

That took you from me sent you home ; 
And oh ! I'd welcome you with love, if you came 
now. 

September 18, 1918. — There is an epidemic of 
influenza in the country these days, and people 
are dying by the hundreds after just a few days' 
sickness. It seems, little book, as if the war was 
coming right home to us, as they call it the "Span- 
ish Influenza," saying it was brought by return- 



48 Snatches from a Diary 

ing troops from the war lands, and it looks as if 
we might die before the boys over there. 

September 25, 1918. — Yesterday, Death took 
away one of my dearest friends in this strange 
disease. She was a beautiful girl, Dick's sweet- 
heart, and Dick will be just crazy, I know, but, 
little book, it will be a long, long time before Dick 
knows anything about it, for he has sailed for 
France. 

I wouldn't send white roses, 
They breathe of love, I know, 

But they always mind me of a dove 
That brings death from above. 

September 27, 1918. — Grace was buried today. 
I sent her a mass of pink roses, she loved them 
so, and Dick always sent her a special kind. And, 
little book, I tried to do just as I thought he 
would have wished, for somehow, little book, pink 
roses seem to make it seem less like death. 

PINK ROSES 
Oh, roses of pink, 

Of how many things you make me think ; 
Your petals tell of the sunset's hue 

And shed sweet perfume moist with dew ; 



Snatches from a Diary 49 

Your leaves speak of the fields so green and cool, 

And the touch of your thorn speaks pain 
By its sharp quick prick. 

Oh, roses of pink, 

You make rne think 
Of the sea, its shells and coral, too, 

And babies so pink and rosy sweet; 
But most of all of my sweetheart's blush 

When I whisper love words dear. 

Oh, roses of pink, 

You make me think 
Of things that are always pure and bright, 

And you make us forget in the hour of death 
By soothing our hearts that are torn with grief, 

By your rosy beauty's soft sweet glow 
By bringing to mind our loved ones' thoughts 

And the warmth and the things that they loved 
in life. 

There is no north, no south, 

No east, no west; 
Our country's one, 

Bowed down in grief. 

September 30, 1918. — It is Sunday, little book, 
and I am writing to Lieutenant Philip. I'm most 
scared to death, afraid to breathe, in fear of this 



50 Snatches from a Diary 

terrible epidemic, for death is everywhere. Manv 
of Phil's friends, too, have died from this in- 
fluenza. He wants to know how almost every- 
one is, asks all kinds of questions in his last let- 
ter. I can't tell, little book, how things- are, can 
I? That we are living in constant fear of death, 
not knowing what might happen from day to day ? 
No, I can't tell him as things are now. But, little 
book, I say to him just to think of home now. 

NOW 

Just now, when the trees 

By autumn leaves are colored gay, 
To tell us that the frost is here, 

It finds us just like a place 
Where the track leaves off 

And the trail begins, 
For troubles of various forms are here 

To fill our hearts with pangs of fear. 

And now, when the evening twilight 
Steals upon you calm and clear, 

Just let your thoughts dwell on 
Scenes of home beyond the seas, 

For the winter frosts will quickly pass 
And spring will come with life still young, 



Snatches from a Diary 51 

And then, perhaps 'twill be 

The end of that long, long road. 

October 3, 1918.— No letters from Philip for 
over ten days, and it seems just ages. His mother 
hasn't heard either, and she is becoming worried. 
She is wondering where Phil's letters went, and 
hers and mine, as I guess few have been received 
out of the number sent on all sides. I guess, 
little book, that everyone is wondering the same 
thing, but I think that they are at the bottom of 
the sea. 

OUR LETTERS 

At the bottom of the sea 

There are letters sent by me 
To a soldier far away across in France ; 

They were written words of love, 
Cheer and happenings over here, 

That we longed to see them home safe soon ; 
But a rocket from a "sub" 

Sent the ship, yes, wild with motion, 
Amid mad billows of the ocean, 

And my letters, with all on board, 
Sunk to the bottom of the deep, deep sea. 

At the bottom of the sea 
There are letters sent to me, 



52 Snatches from a Diary 

Answers from a soldier far away in France ; 

And he writes of life in trenches, 
And of battles with the Boches, 

Adding thoughts for all the folks at home, 
And they hope the day of freedom soon will 
come; 

But those missives never came, 
They were sunk mid ship's debris, 

And they lie in ghastly ruins 
At the bottom of the deep, deep sea. 
At the bottom of the sea, 

Some day I know there'll be commotion, 
For the mermaids and the elves who live amid 
the ocean, 

With the aid of wily fishes, all will search 
For those missives sent across by you and me, 

And I know they'll never falter, 
And I know they'll never halter 

Till upon a coral altar, 
In a casket of pure pearl, 

All those heart thoughts they will turn ; 
Then they'll seal with mystic power, 

And they'll guard with ocean monsters all our 
letters 
At the bottom of the deep, deep sea. 

October io, 1918. — Letter at last from Phil. 
He is a captain now. They say he has done ex- 



Snatches from a Diary 53 

cellent work since being in service, and I am glad 
that he obtained a captaincy. They are all work- 
ing very hard. He says no one will know what 
it is to see all those wounded boys, so good, so 
patient, so brave, no complaints through their 
sufferings. Oh ! if there were no such suffering, 
for what, little book, have those boys done to go 
through such hell ? 

October 15, 1918.— News reached us today of 
the mortal wounding of Phil's chum, Captain 
John Gray. He was a fine fellow, and it is 
mighty hard. His message to his mother was, 
"Mother, I did my best. All around me on the 
battlefield were boys — our boys — and I could not 
leave them." He was wounded three times while 
giving first aid, and had to be carried from the 
field. He was decorated for bravery. Oh ! little 
book, I hope they'll keep Capt. Phil just where 
he is, far from the fighting lines, for he would be 
in the thick of the fight, like Young America. 

YOUNG AMERICA 
Scions of a mighty stock, 

From north to south, from east to west, 
With hands of iron and hearts of oak, 

Our gallant youths will do their best. 



54 Snatches from a Diary 

Honest, yes, with steady eyes, 

True, and pure, and simple, 
Yet, steady for their country's need, 

For her glorious cause to bleed. 

They laugh at danger, far and near, 
They're dauntless on the battlefield, 

They spurn all baseness and all fear, 
Their actions speak only truth and right. 

And happy are they when the call 

For God, their country and liberty comes, 

Religion, freedom, like a rock, 

Bear them on through every shock. 

They even smile when wounded fall, 
Through suffering courage never lack, 

They fight their fight for freedom's chance, 
Although it may mean a grave »in France. 

And when the dove of peace 

Spreads its wings o'er lands and seas, 
At Freedom's banquet of joy and rest, 

The guest of honor and high endeavor 
Will be true to the cause, Young America. 

October 17, 1918. — The United States, in fact, 
the whole world, is all excitement these days, 
waiting to hear the President's answer to Ger- 
many's plea for peace. We are anxious to hear, 



Snatches from a Diary 55 

loo, little book, for I think that "No" will be his 
answer. 

HIS ANSWER 
All the eyes of the world are watching 

For the answer he sends o'er seas ; 
All the ears of the world are listening, 

His words to him who wages peace for only 
future wars ; 
All the hearts of the world are throbbing 

As they wait for his well-thought words, 
For he who wages war for future peace 

Will speak, yes, strong, direct, 
No trifling, stern facts to render, 

Summed up to mean "Complete Surrender"; 
Else, he answers "No." 

October 19, 1918.— The first time, little book, 
it looks as if sometime soon we might have peace. 
But not until it's a just peace and the Kaiser is 
conquered. 

CONQUERED 

To the Kaiser 

Through all your life, you have been king, 

To the people of your land, 
You've fought your way, where few would fight, 
And stood where few would stand, 



56 Snatches from a Diary 

And vowed by blood-shed, fire and sword, 
The wide, wide world you'd own. 

You've conquered foes, and victories won, 
And dared by barriers, to stay their way, 

You've pillaged, burned and murdered, too, 
The old, the young, the infirm, yes, 

Your thoughts of others were dreams to you, 
Their lives to you, mere play. 

You've scourged the lands of Belgium, France, 

Brought terror to their hearts, 
You've climbed the heights of the Appenines, 

And trod o'er Italian vales, 
And watched from brow of dizzy cliffs, 

The sea with warfare sails. 

You've taken your chance, with the rushing 
crowd, 
And charged all the earth with fire. 
You've looked on them suffer, from cot and 
throne, 
And gazed on the fields so red with blood, 
And with deep, dark eyes and folded arms, 
Said, "I will, I'll kill, I'll own." 

But where is your kingly power today? 
And what does your spirit crave? 



Snatches from a Diary 57 

Your days of carnage soon must cease, 
As your days of power, of fire and siege, 

For your calm "Thou shalt," won't matter now, 
Nor your look, your thought, your word. 

Today, there's a faltering in your voice, 

And in your eyes, a look of fear, 
Which from you should mean but coward's 
shame, 

Manacles you'd clasp on all men's strength, 
And deep in slavery all enthrall, speak, 

You can't, you know, your battle now is lost. 

For women's voices are lifted in prayer, 
They speed through your clouds of fire, 

Their eyes to Heaven are raised for help, 
Their lips are smiling, they have no tears, 

For our men over there, for Liberty fight, 
In the battle of fire, for Freedom's right. 

Yes, the voice of the world is calling, 
And all hearts with pain are throbbing, 

And the souls of the earth, as one, 
Unite in their hope for peace, 

But still to the end, they'll suffer, 

Till you're conquered, O king of fiends. 

October 20, 19 18. — Terrible reports of fight- 
ing have come to us during the last few weeks, 



58 Snatches from a Diary 

and more so the last few days. Many are 
wounded, perhaps our boys, too. In one of the 
letters that Philip sent I remember he wrote of 
how patient and brave they were, but the real, 
real sick boys and men dreaded the night so he 
said he was glad almost when they passed away, 
for he knew they went to Heaven to rest, where 
there is no night. 

THERE IS NO NIGHT 
There is no night in Heaven, 

For angels with wings of light 
Fan back the darkening shadows, 

Dispelling the dreary night. 

There is no night in Heaven, 

Only daylight shines brightly there, 

Leaving no room for sorrow, 
Just God, with celestial light. 

There is no night in Heaven, 

Just unfading silvery beams, 
With richest music swelling 

From angel choirs sublime. 

There is no night in Heaven, 
Only peace and truth and light, 

With an ocean of starry blossoms " 
To keep away the night. 



Snatches from a Diary 59 

There'll be triumph, triumph, triumph gleaming 

As they march down through the streets, 
Mad will go the town, each man will be a boy, 

Thousands of flags will flame, 
And bells will ring out joy, 

And there'll be music, mirth and sunshine, 
And some tears in most all eyes, 

As the town rings out in cheers 
For our returning boys. 

October 21, 1918. — Philip, I read your last let- 
ter over and over. Well, little book, I forgot for 
a moment that I was talking to you, and called 
you Philip. They are working so hard, there 
were so many wounded to be taken care of. The 
doctors and the nurses are surely doing good 
work, both here and over there. I wish, little 
book, that it was all over. Til be so glad, Captain 
Phil, when you come home. 

WHEN YOU COME HOME 
When you come home, and the world's at peace, 

My heart won't be able for any speech ; 
I'll throw open the door and call all the sunbeams 
to merry dance, 
Tell them to cover with golden light, 
Chase all the shadows from the place, 



60 Snatches from a Diary 

Call to the birds to sing their best, 
And roses I'll strew with all the rest, 

Remember, from over the seas, when you come 
home. 

When you come home, oh ! won't it be great 

To do all the things you planned to do, 
Forget all your sufferings, toil and grief, 

Of your days over seas, in this great long feat, 
Just make life happy, sorrows brief? 

All will be love, just happy dreams, 
Filled with music, light and song, 

My ! don't I wish that you were home. 

October 21, 1918. — Little book, just what I 
expected has happened to my brother Tom. He 
has been injured by falling from his plane. 
Father is going to go to him tonight ; mother is 
too ill to go, and I will follow as soon as I can 
leave her cared for properly. Tom was such a 
good brother. He was quiet, but oh, so kind, 
little book. He was a great big fellow, and you 
could snuggle right up under his arm and he 
would tell you stories by the dozen. I just loved 
Tom to death when I was a little girl. He wasn't 
anything like Dick. Tom did all the pleasing and 
Dick did all the teasing. Oh ! Philip, Dick, Tom, 
little book, I'm just calling. 



Snatches from a Diary 61 

I'M CALLING 
I'm calling to you, over there, 

Where the rays of the setting sun 
Are just as purple, just as gold 

As they are over here, when the day is done ; 
Over the ocean, to over there, 

Where the sun shines high in the sky, 
There's where my thoughts fly, 

Yes, there's where our hearts lie, 
So I'm calling. 

I'm calling to you, over there, 

'Mid the crowd upon the streets, 
In the cities and the little towns, 

And I even call amid the harbors, 
Crowded now with wondrous fleets ; 

I can see the many rivers, 
And the many gardens, too, 

With their roses moist with dew ; 
Yes, I'm dreaming o'er the ocean, 
And I'm calling. 

I'm calling you, over there, 

Where reigns of terror blaze ; 
I can see the smoking harvest, 

And the cities all nigh razed, 
And the battlefields of bloodshed 

'Midst its din and fire and roar; 



62 Snatches from a Diary 

I am near you, right before you, 
'Twixt your body and the foe, 
And my heart and soul is with you, 
As I'm calling. 

I'm calling that I see you coming home, 

Yes, down the old familiar road ; 
It's a picture never leaves me, 

No matter where I roam ; 
Coming home to where you will leave 

Fire and blood and ghastly death, 
When o'er ocean waves again you come, 

Leaving all the cannon's roar; 
And when the stars stud the evening sky 

I'll be waiting, waiting over here ; 
That's why I'm calling. 

October 2.2, 19 18. — It never rains but it pours. 
That is an old saying, little book, and it is just 
the way things are with me today. I've had 
news that Phil's unit is on the firing line or 
working near it ; and in these days you know 
what that means. I must be brave, I know, and, 
little book, pray and think of the De Profundis. 

DE PROFUNDIS 
In these days of woe and hours of darkness, 
When the world is one great heart of anguish, 



Snatches from a Diary 63 

Of homes with ties all torn apart, 

Where shy-eyed children softly creep 
And watch their mothers silent weep, 

When parents press their hearts to still the 
grief, 
And the young no longer in pleasure languish, 
Oh, God, we kneel down at thy feet and cry, 
"Lord, hear our voice; have mercy !" 

In these days of woe and inhuman plight, 

When cities burn and fields are strewn with 
dead, 
When famine knocks and pestilence with death 

Stand victorious in the bloody strife, 
When the wounded, dying, send their prayers 

In one great gift to Thy throne above, 
With them we pray and cry to thee : 

"Lord, hear our voice ; have mercy !" 

In these days of woe and human torture, 

When amid the cannon's roar and fire of gun, 
We wipe our brow and press our ears, 

And try to still the fearful din, 
Where bullets hiss and strike and tear, 

If wounded or fallen we will be brave, 
And say, "Thy will be done" ; 

Dying on field or by sad grave, 



64 Snatches from a Diary 

We pray and cry to thee : 

"Lord, hear our voice ; have mercy !" 

October 23, 1918. — Little book, I leave to go 
to Tom now. I know not what horrors greet me, 
but as one has to be a perfect "Stonewall" I 
must be brave, but oh ! I dread it. I hope he is 
not seriously hurt. The little training I've had 
in nursing may help some now, and some day I'll 
tell you more, little book — yes, sometime. 

SOMETIME 

Sometime, again, when the Angel of Peace 

Spreads his snowy wings o'er lands and seas, 
We'll meet again in that garden rare, 

Where roses and lilies fill the air 
With perfume and sweetness, dewy sweet, 

Sometime, perhaps, sometime. 
And then again, if it's not too late, 

We'll speak words again that we both hold 
dear; 
Each flower and blossom will speak a thought, 

Their beauty and perfume spell a hope, 
The birds will carol and answer and sing, 

Sometime, perhaps, sometime. 



UliiiX 

018 348 ,258 



